


i’ll tell you something the others won’t: it took a thousand nights to get to warmth

by theyarenotfree



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 10:07:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5286632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyarenotfree/pseuds/theyarenotfree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it’s been years since it all ended. and eventually, everything always comes back together again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i’ll tell you something the others won’t: it took a thousand nights to get to warmth

**Author's Note:**

> the title, as well as the italicized part at the beginning, is from the song a thousand nights by trent dabbs. thank you so much for reading. thank you thank you thank you. x

_“Where you gonna go when your wildfire heart blows out_

_No one cares anymore_

_Another face in the cards we'll call this town, getting lost in the fold_

_I'll tell you something the others won't:_

_It took a thousand nights to get to warmth”_

 

///

 

There is a certain elegance in something falling back together.

 

Five boys who started with nothing. Five boys who, suddenly, had the world at their feet. It only seems right that they’re left with nothing, in the end.

It makes sense, it does, but Louis still wonders how they managed to lose each other along the way. He still wonders how they went from being like brothers to fighting on Twitter, wonders how they have gone this long without even seeing each other. It’s been five years since The Worst Day, and Louis can still taste the bitter goodbyes on his tongue, can still hear the half-assed apologies for all the wrong things.

He can remember when it all went wrong. He can remember that moment when all he felt was lost. It was a slow realization, and it was so odd for them—the ones who knew each other better than they knew themselves. That was one of the bad days, when they were left staring blankly— _silent_ —because they didn’t even know how to _be_. They didn’t know how to be angry at the same people that they needed like they needed air.

It never felt right. It hasn’t felt right since.

 

They were over long before they said they were over. So much, that it didn’t even feel like a surprise. It just felt empty, and liberating in a way that still makes Louis’ stomach churn uneasily.

Louis remembers the very end—all the boys do, he thinks. It isn’t something you just forget. The band was too special to just be washed away with spilled whisky and silent tears.

He remembers Harry crying more than anything. Five years later, and he can still feel his fingertips burning—wanting to reach out, wanting to comfort. He didn’t, at the time, and he has yet to find a reason to justify his absence in a time when Harry _needed_ him. The other boys were there—always, always there—though Zayn was gone long before then.

 

Maybe that was when everything went wrong—when Zayn left. Louis knows they were burning out even before that, but he’s still bitter about it. He’s still hurt.

They never talked about it, is the thing. There was the initial shock. There was confusion and angry disbelief, but they were still kids. Even then, when they were aged beyond their years, they were still kids.

There would always be the silly thought that he left them to be eaten alive. That he walked away when they needed him the most. Which is _stupid_ , Louis knows, Zayn went through just as much shit for leaving. And they had hugged it out at the time, yeah, but Louis had never truly forgiven him.

Louis remembers the day after he left for good, after it all sunk in, thinking, _they’ll hate him. Some will just cry, sure. But some will get angry. Some will yell_. He remembers feeling a sick pleasure from the thought and he hates himself for it.

He was so young. All of them, they were just boys. They had been so naïve, so innocent. It was that which was taken from them. They were older now. They understood that there were always consequences for their actions. They understood that Fate was a thing with beady eyes and an ironic sense of humor. That was, perhaps, the hardest thing to comprehend—that everything always came back together, in the end.

Louis just doesn’t understand. He doesn’t _get it_. He doesn’t know why he pushed them all away, why he pushed until he was so alone that the silence screamed. There’s no good reason why they haven’t spoken in years. There’s no good reason why it still hurts to even think about them.

  

He remembers the build up, only to have it all crash down. He remembers the bitten lips and the foreshadowing, the men in suits.

“Well, you’ve had a great run, boys,” they said.

And all he could think was, “ _Are we not still running_?”

And isn’t that a loaded sentence. Doesn’t that just say more about it than any words that ever left Louis’ mouth. Louis recalls Harry glancing at him, like he could hear the question despite it never being said aloud. Louis thinks he found his answer when Harry’s fingers twitched, like they wanted to reach out and just _touch_ , but his hand stayed firmly by his side. They had been breaking for a while, too.

There had been a buzz in the air, an anticipation like they were waiting for someone to tell them that this was really happening, that this was really the end.

Harry had been silent. He was silent a lot, in their last days. Louis only realized afterwards that it had been all his fault. Everything was his fault—the big fight and the bottled feelings. The initial impact and the fallout and the way his fingernails left marks on his palms, from holding on too tight to things that weren’t his anymore.

Harry was a star, after all. And he had been Louis’ light since the very first day. It only seemed fitting that the end of _Louis and Harry_ be something bright—some huge cosmic Big Bang, fucking over everything else in the end.

Everyone became a victim, and Louis felt the weight of it, finally. He no longer had anyone to help him carry it all. It had been so long since he’d been alone.

They had to wait until everything was signed and tied up neatly with a bow, until the band was wrung dry of every last pound and the interviews were scheduled for the apocalypse that would be the end of One Direction. They planned to ride out the worldwide media this would receive for quite a while. The band would be over and they’d still make millions from it. Louis was so sick of it—the familiarity of greed, the bank accounts with zeros in all the right places. It was a dance he had learned so long ago, and he didn’t want to do it anymore.

They pretended for a while. They were good at it, by then. Louis watched quietly as Harry sunk in on himself. He watched him smile for the fans, smile for the world. He hadn’t smiled for Louis in so long.

Which was funny, now that he thought about it. Because Louis used to be his world.

They could all see the end, and it left them ragged and hurting in places they never thought would hurt. They ran towards it anyways, and Louis had never felt more isolated—hurtling towards the end of everything he’d ever known with these boys by his side, going to the same place but never really colliding. What scared Louis the most was the itch he felt under his skin—telling him that he needed to get away, that staying by people who knew everything about you was a bad idea when all you wanted was to feel like an individual again 

During their last week, Liam and Niall clung to Louis because he puffed his chest out and played brave. It was a mistake, really. Louis saw Harry get momentarily smaller, and he almost screamed—only stopped himself out of fear that Harry wouldn’t be able to hear him anyways. Harry—the youngest, the one they had always kept in their line of sight because he was softer than the rest of them, because he was left so untouched by the darkness around him—was hurting just as much.

It stung to look at him, because he knew that the band wasn’t the only thing that was ending. Louis saw him struggling, unable to show how much he needed them. Louis remembers Niall and Liam by his side, jokes flying between them like they didn’t know what was coming up. Louis watched Harry, though, prancing around the stage, flaunting and yelling, trying to get someone to _pay attention_ , someone to notice. Louis noticed, of course. He always did. But they didn’t do that anymore, hadn’t done that for a while. Harry was no longer his to comfort.

But then it was over, faster than it had even started, and Louis felt a strange sense of freedom. Like he could finally breathe again—it was over and Louis felt the air in his lungs as well as a bittersweet smile and he wondered if this was why Zayn did it. He wondered why leaving something behind sometimes felt a lot more like breaking the surface of the ocean.

He wondered why he had everything he could ever ask for and it had still felt wrong.

It still hurt, though. Louis was never really sure how much of it was the Harry part, and how much was the end of the band that contributed to feeling like a piece of him had died. He was desperately trying to grieve—drinking his weight in alcohol while the tabloids had a field day, eating everything up. They had always managed to make him feel like a piece of meat in a shark tank.

Louis remembers sitting in his empty flat, drunk and trying not to scream—and that was the day Louis felt it the most. When he was at home, which didn’t feel like home, curled up on the couch with nothing to do anymore. The whole world was mourning the loss of One Direction and he could feel the pull in his chest.

His laptop had been open on the coffee table, and the pain was a fresh wound. He had scrolled clumsily on the keyboard, face illuminated blue by the screen. _One Direction, who recently announced their surprising break up, was one of the world’s biggest boybands.._. There was a sinking in his stomach, and _that was it_ , he thought, _it would never hurt more than that_ —when they finally changed everything to _was_ instead of _is_. That was when you knew it was over. That was the end.

He was wrong about that being the worst part, though. Of course, it could always hurt more.

 

Louis had found himself walking through cemeteries in his dreams. He woke and he was still surrounded by the dead.

He thought about Harry a lot. About how even now they wouldn’t have been able to be themselves. They were in far too deep, and Louis loved him too much to ask him to dig the hole even deeper. It had somehow seemed rational to just leave him stranded by himself. Louis stopped answering and Harry stopped calling. He was just so tired, and he would always be missing a few too many pieces feel normal again.

He thought about how you shouldn’t live your life more afraid than not—and as much as he told himself he wasn’t, he was hiding.

Because he had left for a place where he knew they’d never look. He finally felt solitude, which he had been deprived of for so long, and he hated it. Louis dropped off the radar like they never thought he would. And it was comforting, to think that Louis was so drastically changed that he surprised them all, that he had been completely destroyed to the point where he wasn’t even himself anymore, twisted beyond recognition.

It took years, somehow, for him to see it. And it shocked him to his core. Maybe that was why he did it, after so long.

It’s that moment when you realize you don’t have quite as much time as you thought you did—he still felt it like an open wound, the threat still present and burning and maybe that’s why he called them. Maybe he hated feeling cold all the time. Maybe he just missed the parts of him they had taken with them.

 

/// 

 

“You know, I’m not gonna give you any food if you keep whining like that. 

Louis takes a teasing bite of his sandwich, chewing while he pointedly looks out at the ocean, feeling the salty breeze on his legs. The sound of the waves is soft and the beach is empty, sun hidden behind a thick blanket of grey.

There is a dog by his feet, matted hair and pleading eyes, but it’s not unusual. The dog has been eating his way through Louis’ leftovers ever since he moved here. It’s just one of those _things_ that makes this place seem special, giving Louis more reasons not to leave, more reasons to stay here, nestled and lonely.

All the neighbors feed him as well, and no one really knows where he stays at night. All Louis knows is he has been a constant for years, and sometimes he’ll leave his back door cracked open, only to find the dog fast asleep on his couch, snoring in the morning light.

It makes sense, that the first and only real friend Louis would make after his life crashed in around him would be a stray dog. It makes sense, how lost things always cling to each other.

It was on Louis’ first day in this house that he saw him; skinny and shivering near the place where sandy beach becomes Louis’ back porch. The sky had been vast and cloudy, ocean misting and water looking dark and cold 

“We’re both gonna be alone for a while, buddy. Looks like we’ll have to stick together,” Louis remembers saying. He never gave the dog a name—refusing to take his claim on something that didn’t belong to him. He knew better than that.

  

The weather now is the same as that day. Louis is used to it—the cold sand and hidden sun. He chose this place on purpose. He had felt a chill in his bones for so long, and he needed something to blame it on.

Nobody ever really understood. There were months after the move where girls would storm the beach, paparazzi would yell and flash their cameras. The magazines published article after article about Louis and his _life_ and this—this was what he was trying to get away from. It must’ve worked, eventually, because they left him alone, and Niall finally stopped texting him to ask if he wanted to hang out.

They all wondered why Louis Tomlinson had run off to the one place where the sun never seems to shine. Truth is, Louis’ sun had stopped shining for him long before he moved here.

 

The roaring waves are nearly the same color as the clouds on the horizon. Louis absently throws a bit of his sandwich to the dog, hearing him yelp in thanks and settle down to sit on Louis’ feet.

Louis’s phone is somewhere inside, probably buzzing with texts from Niall—they hadn’t texted in so _long_ —and Louis just _can’t_ right now. He just can’t.

He never planned on calling Niall, but he had been awake at some ungodly hour, staring out at the ocean, dark rocks jutting into the sky and making everything look sharp. He was barefoot and shivering, and he had a fleeting thought that Harry would be very disappointed that he didn’t pull on a jacket. He clenched his fists until it was gone.

He had walked down the beach, feet sinking into the cold sand like they were trying to hide from something. Then it just, happened. It wasn’t momentous or significant, but it was the most Louis had felt in so long. He had suddenly frozen midstride, only to look down at the place where his foot hovered over the ground. Directly underneath his suspended foot, there was a dark orange sea star, looking sad and dead and lonely.

He still can’t say what had made him stop walking. It’s not that he had seen the sea star, but more like he had felt it crying out—begging. Washed up and abandoned, and it still had the self-preservation to call for help. Louis thought, not for the first time, that this beach had a tendency to collect the unwanted.

Then, for some inexplicable reason, Louis pulled his phone out of the pocket of his joggers. Five years later, at four in the morning in the middle of a secluded beach, with chattering teeth and shaking hands, Louis called Niall. And Niall answered on the second ring, like they had just spoken yesterday.

He still can’t say what came over him—only that he had felt this unbelievable pull towards _something_ , like his body was finally calling out for the thing it had been craving all along. Niall sounded the same.

_“Want me to call the others?”_

_“Yes, I—yeah, you could all stay at my place for a bit, maybe.”_

_“Do you mean_ all _the others?”_

_“I—yeah, Niall. All of them.”_

And then Louis was left wondering what the _hell_ he just did. He had walked back inside in a daze, suddenly more exhausted than he’d ever been. The sea star was gone the next day, but Louis doesn’t want to think about what that might mean.

 

There’s another whine from the dog by his feet and Louis is suddenly hit with how _big_ this is. This is—this is _huge_. He’s shut himself away for _years_ and hidden himself from these boys, these boys who he knows absolutely everything about. But it’s been fucking years and suddenly Louis is terrified. Because what if they show up and he doesn’t know them like he did before. What if they show up and look right through him, like he’s a stranger.

He tosses his entire sandwich on the ground, waiting for the dog to pounce on it like he usually does with whatever food he is given. Louis is surprised when he hesitates, big dark eyes watching Louis like he knows something’s wrong. It’s too much, is the thing. Louis is just—he is feeling so _much_. Miles away, driving on some expressway with the windows cracked open and the radio blasting, is Niall. And he is coming to see Louis. And he called Liam and he called Zayn and he called _Harry_  

Louis feels the cool ocean breeze but he is too hot, and this fucking dog is just _staring_ at him. He doesn’t know what to say. Not to himself, not to this dog, and definitely not to the boys that will be showing up at his home. Louis just doesn’t know who he is anymore, hasn’t known who he is for years. He can’t explain himself—not even to Harry, who he loves more than anyone. Harry, who let Louis go because he knew that was what he needed to do, who has stayed away for five fucking years because Louis asked him to.

There is the sound of tires on gravel, a muffled rap song with a booming bass, a car door slamming and these footsteps and Louis—he just _knows_. He doesn’t turn around, keeps staring at the ocean while he listens to the familiar drag of feet—up the driveway and towards the back, and suddenly freezing, all sound ceasing aside from the gentle pull of the waves. Louis watches the white ocean foam as it slides up the beach, slipping away again, only kissing the shore. He feels suspended for a moment, all slow motion with his throat bobbing in the dull colors of the day, salt in the air sticking to his hair, his tired eyes, and then

“Louis?”

It takes Louis’ body a moment to react to the voice, but then his heart is pounding, hair on the back of his neck standing up like it’s reaching out for the new presence. He turns, so slowly, eyes fluttering as he takes in the boy standing on his back porch. He is so achingly familiar—pink cheeks and hair blonde at the tips, the dark roots making his blue eyes look bright. There is a second where no one moves. Louis’ breath stutters in his throat, and then Niall is jumping on him, arms wrapping Louis in a fierce hug. He stumbles back, foot slipping on the sandwich that’s still on the ground, struggling to hold the boy’s unforgiving weight.

Niall is blubbering nonsense, eyes wide and a watery blue. He feels softer than Louis remembers, and for a moment, Louis loses his words. Then something clicks, somewhere in the back of his mind, because this is _Niall_.

“Don’t cry, Ni. It’s just little old me,” he chokes out, tension leaving his body as he smiles—he _actually_ smiles. Louis hasn’t felt the tug of pure joy on his face in so long.

“Shut the _fuck_ up, you fucker,” Niall mumbles. His voice sounds wrecked and raw to the point where it almost isn’t even Niall anymore, but he’s smiling. He’s smiling so wide. They are both a mess of limbs and teeth and cheeks pulled taut.

In the midst of it all, a dog leaps towards them—panting happily and giving Niall’s nose a good lick. Their laughs sound wet as they stumble towards the house. Louis leads both Niall and the dog inside, the sound of the ocean muting as he closes the hard wood door. He turns around and Niall is still there, standing in the middle of his living room looking so young.

“Zayn is on his way. Li and H are driving down together, but they won’t be here until later,” Niall says, eyes never leaving Louis as he leans back on his heels. There is a gust of wind that rattles against the window facing the ocean. Louis rubs his lips together, watching a seagull soar across the gloomy sky. He nods and slips past Niall into the kitchen.

Louis isn’t sure what time it is, but he pulls two beers out of the fridge anyways, pressing one into Niall’s hand. There is a sense of quiet around Niall that seems new, a part of him that Louis hasn’t gotten to see yet. They take a sip at the same time, both hovering in the small room. There is an unfinished game of Solitaire on the coffee table from this morning, when Louis was tense and sleepy and anxious. He had played game after game, legs sore from kneeling on the ground and eyes burning until the numbers stopped looking like numbers.

“Want me to order a pizza?” Louis asks because he doesn’t know what else to say, he doesn’t really know what he’s doing at all. Niall nods nonetheless and settles into the couch, next to the already sleeping dog. Niall spreads his body out, looking at ease, and for a moment, all Louis can see is the teenager with red cheeks and a loud laugh and such a genuine comfort with the world he lived in 

Louis steps into his bedroom, just off the living room, feeling an immediate calm settle over him when he shuts the door. He didn’t realize how tense his shoulders had been—back sore from curving in on himself. He rolls his neck and orders a few pizzas and when he steps out of the room, Zayn is leaning against the wall by the front door, sharing a smile with Niall as their conversation tapers off.

Louis vaguely wonders how he managed to slip in the house without Louis hearing, but Zayn has always been like that—quiet and sharp and subtle. They don’t hug immediately, like Louis and Niall had. Louis rounds the room slowly, keeping his eyes on Zayn and his back to the wall. He looks different—murky, even more hardened by the world. They regard each other significantly, eyes unmoving and narrowed slightly. Zayn pushes off the wall—takes a tiny step forward with a grin.

Louis freezes. The whole room freezes, really. Zayn looks unsure, for a moment, gaze sliding over Louis’ face and hands loose at his sides. Niall watches them intently from the couch, words on his tongue that he doesn’t know how to say. Then the dog next to Niall snorts in his sleep, shifting weight and startling Louis into breaking Zayn’s stare.

His eyes watch Zayn’s feet, worn out Nike sneakers slowly easing forward. They stop directly in front of Louis, and he wiggles his toes against the hardwood floor, finally glancing up.

“Hey, Bro,” Zayn says, quiet and soft. He leans forward, and pulls Louis against his chest, breath _whooshing_ out of him. There is a second of nothing before Louis caves, and then he’s leaning forward and pulling Zayn closer, fingers curling in the back of his shirt.

“Hey,” Louis whispers and he feels Zayn’s hands shake against his back. Zayn inhales sharply and pulls away, looking dark and smoky as always. He composes his face, letting Louis see his moment of weakness, of sorrow and pain, before he turns to Niall with a small smirk.

“Can’t believe you haven’t brought your Irish arse to LA to visit my new place, mate,” Zayn strolls across the room and drops himself into an armchair. Niall booms out a response and Louis hovers, unsure as to where he fits. He thinks about what _Louis from Before_ would’ve done, thinks about how he would’ve sat right in Niall’s lap, probably. He would’ve made a joke and rolled his eyes and got them smiling so _so_ much wider than they were right now. He just _couldn’t_. He couldn’t.

“Hey, I think I’m gonna sit on the beach for a bit,” he says, barely recognizing his own voice, let alone the fact that he interrupted Zayn in the middle of his sentence. He points over his shoulder towards the door, feeling almost sheepish with the way he is shifting on his feet. Niall and Zayn are both looking at him but Louis doesn’t want to see their expressions. He throws some cash on the coffee table, upsetting his game of Solitaire still laid out, “That’s for the pizza, when it comes. I’m not actually hungry, so.”

And then he’s spinning on his heel and hoping they take the hint and don’t follow after him. A salty breeze hits him the moment he steps outside and he stumbles onto the sand, trying not to run away from the house. He can feel Niall and Zayn watching him through the window so he tucks his hands in the pockets of his joggers and tries to look more like he’s walking casually and less like he’s having a mental breakdown.

He reaches the shore, waves gliding over his bare feet and foam tickling his ankles. He sits right there, in the shallow water, and he bites his fist with clenched eyes. The ocean is loud in a way that makes Louis feel so alone. The cold shock of the water barely registers while he chokes down a sob.

It’s just—he’s never felt more like an outsider, never felt more like a _stranger_. And suddenly, with water lapping up his legs and soaking his clothes, he realizes that he wants them back. He wants it all back—all the shit they went through and all the laughs, all the lies told through clenched teeth and all the _love_. He wants it all back. He has never wanted anything more.

He wants his brothers and he wants his best friends and he wants _Harry_. And Louis would give anything to have those five years back, would give anything to do it all over again.

Niall and Zayn are in his house, chatting like old friends, and Liam and Harry are mere miles away, and they are all hurtling towards each other at some impossible speed that Louis hasn’t experienced in years, and it all feels like some kind of sick second chance. It’s some kind of bitter karma, telling Louis to _try again, you didn’t get it right the first time, try again_.

And Louis almost buys it—the false hope that he can have it all back. He almost lets himself believe that the universe is finally in his corner, that he can have his cake and eat it too. But then he hears a car in the distance and he grips the sand in a tight hand until it slips right through his fingers and he looks at himself—wet and cold and so so alone. He sees the place where he cut himself out of the picture, ragged and torn, and he knows, suddenly, that it’ll take more than glue to put him back in. That it’ll take more than what he’s willing to give.

And he knows they won’t talk about it. He knows they won’t even acknowledge it—how it’s not the same. How it’s never going to be the same again.

 

/// 

 

The sun must set somewhere behind the thick film of gray, because Louis finds himself surrounded by darkness. It’s all the same shade of dull—even Louis’ eyes mirror the colorless world. He thinks maybe if he turns around he’d see his house up the beach, lit up and bursting with old friends.

He doesn’t turn around, though. He refuses—too afraid of whose silhouette he might see in the living room window. There is a biting breeze and Louis kind of wishes he hadn’t sat right down in the water earlier, kind of wishes he had stayed inside in the first place.

Parts of seashells dot the shore like broken promises. Louis has seen too many of those in his lifetime. The dark clouds twist in angry shapes, misting across the sky—as if these boys finally being together after so long has caused the Gods some great immeasurable pain. Louis almost laughs. They haven’t even seen the worst of it yet.

The tide has sunk down the beach, leaving Louis sitting amongst sea glass and drying foam. He wants the water back, wants it to scrub him raw and clean, but it keeps moving. The water recedes more with each press of waves—a reminder of the way nothing has ever sat still for them since it all began. Even now, when all they have are memories.

There is a shuffling of sand from behind Louis—a sound he can only recognize because of how accustomed he’s grown to the silence. The waves scream, but Louis thinks the shuffling sounds like boots.

They’re not the worn thin boots that Louis used to see lined up next to the door every time he’d enter his old flat in London. They’re more like the clunky boots Liam would prop on his lap while they watched a footie match together, just before Louis would brush the legs off of him until they hit the ground with a _smack_. It’s almost comforting to Louis to know that Liam still wears the same shoes.

The footsteps stop, and Louis doesn’t say anything. He has been ignoring Liam’s phone calls for five years; if there was something he wanted to say to him he would’ve said it by now.

Amazingly, Liam says nothing. Louis must have underestimated his ability to shut up when he needs to.

Liam drapes something over Louis’ shoulders and sits down in the wet sand beside him, the back of his jeans digging into the rain-damp beach. It’s the blanket from Louis’ living room. It’s only then that Louis realizes he was _shaking._  

“Thank you,” Louis says. He doesn’t look over, suddenly feeling too proud to show Liam just how much everything broke him, too proud to show him just how fucked over he really is.

“You’re welcome,” Liam responds, and it’s—it shocks Louis to his core, hearing his voice after so long. Louis can’t believe he had forgotten a voice that had been such a constant for him. Liam, who has always been there. Liam, who has treated him like a brother since the very first day.

It feels momentous, then, when Louis reaches over and grabs Liam’s hand in his. He’s not exactly holding it properly—just squeezing Liam’s fingers in a tight fist and holding on for dear life. Louis’s hands are trembling, and he knows his grip is too tight to be casual. He needs this, though. He needs the comfort before he crumples completely. He doesn’t know how to tell Liam that he has been feeling a bit more eroded than usual lately. Louis has lived by the ocean for far too long.

“Thank you,” Louis says instead. He’s already said it, but this time is different. Louis’ words ache. Looking over at Liam, Louis thinks he understands that Louis is thanking him for more than just a blanket. Liam squeezes his hand and manages his classic puppy-smile. It somehow looks more real than any smile Liam ever pulled for the cameras.

Five years has done Liam well. He oozes contentment and ease. Louis wants to ask what he’s been up to. He also wants to comment on how unflattering his hair looks when it’s parted that way, but. Maybe later.

“Let’s go inside,” Liam says, but it sounds weary, like he’d let Louis stay here for hours if he really wanted to. Louis nods, because it feels like he’s been forgiven for something. They stand, but Louis keeps his hold on Liam’s hand. He tugs the arm forward and trudges up the beach, feigning confidence now that Liam can’t see his face.

Louis’ wet ankles are stuck with sand—clinging to him like a burden that shouldn’t be his to carry. He thought he left all his burdens behind when he ran away, but they only seemed to come back tenfold. He feels vulnerable—more so than he did when the band first started getting big. When they took him away and taught him to lie.

Louis thinks he got ripped off in the whole deal. The entire band did, really. They carved their own little niche in the world, but the world carved into them as well.

They’re at the door when Louis finally falters, remembering who else he has invited into his home. Liam eases his hand out of Louis’ and turns the doorknob instead, nudging Louis forward with a knee to the back of his thighs. Louis gets the message, just as well as he would’ve gotten it five years ago. He pushes the door open.

There is the soft sound of a television and then Louis sees him.

He is the first person Louis sees, the first person Louis will always see. There is some game show on, throwing eerie blue light over the room. Sharp shadows dance across the walls, but Louis can’t look away.

When Harry finally realizes that the door is open, he turns towards it—face shifting from the tail end of a smile into a carefully blank expression. Louis hates whoever taught him to mask his face like that.

The light in the room makes Harry’s eyes look dark black, and his teeth glow blue when his mouth opens, words lodged in the back of his throat. Louis knows how he feels.

Harry looks good. He has always looked good, but Louis has never shied away from reminding him. He doesn’t say it out loud, but Louis lets himself take a long look at the boy on his couch. Harry has kept his hair a bit above shoulder length, still curling around his ears and neck in wild waves. His lips look dark and Louis sees a new tattoo peeking out from his half-unbuttoned shirt. Harry has a new tattoo that Louis hasn’t kissed yet. The thought makes Louis want to scream. Harry’s throat bobs and Louis’ eyes go to his neck immediately. He’s got what looks like Niall’s sock draped over his shoulder, but Louis doesn’t comment like he usually would.

It’s then that Liam pushes Louis forward until he can shut the door behind them. Louis has no idea how long he’s been standing in the open doorway with his chapped lips parted and a blanket still draped over his shoulders, but he flushes from embarrassment anyways.

“Lou’s back,” Niall cheers from the loveseat across the room, “Come sit by me!”

There is a dog lounging across his body, furry head buried somewhere in Niall's neck. Louis hurries to sit next to them, taking the long way around the coffee table to avoid having to squeeze past Harry’s folded legs.

“Want some pizza?” Zayn asks. He’s sitting on the floor with his back against an armchair. It takes a few seconds of silence for Louis to realize that Zayn was addressing him.

“No thanks,” Louis tries for a smile. It must fall short because Liam purses his lips from where he’s sat down next to Harry. Louis lets his eyes fall to his lap because he can see how Harry has turned his whole body towards him, staring shamelessly. It’s something Louis used to tease Harry relentlessly for, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

Niall shakes the couch with a laugh. He is engrossed in the television, seemingly unaware of the onslaught of tension in the room. Louis realizes he’s wrong when he feels Niall elbow his side, wiggling his eyebrows at some joke that must’ve been said. He realizes how hard Niall is trying, how that tenor of his laugh is so obviously forced. Of course Niall feels the tension. He’s trying to distract from it.

Louis smiles gratefully and trails his fingers over the dog next to him. His eyes catch sight of the coffee table, where there is an almost-finished pizza and an open bottle of soda, gone flat and warm. Louis’ game of Solitaire sits next to it, and by the looks of it has been fixed, all the cards lined up neatly in perfect lines. Louis can only think of one person who would take the time to do that without even being asked. He wants to sob.

“You look tired, Lou,” Liam comments, arms thrown carelessly across the back of the couch.

“Yeah,” Louis says. He knows he looks tired. He has been getting less sleep than he got when he was still in the band. Louis hasn’t dreamed in so long.

“You can go sleep, if you want. We won’t mind.”

“Yeah,” Louis says again, because he’s ran out of words that don’t make him sound like he’s pulling apart at the seams.

He stands, murmuring some nonsense about the guest bedrooms upstairs before he closes himself in his room. The volume of the television goes down until it’s barely a buzz. It doesn’t matter—Louis won’t be able to sleep anyways.

He hears Harry laugh, and it sounds purposefully quiet and restrained. The glowing blue light shines in through the crack at the bottom of the door so Louis pulls his comforter over his head and bites his pillow in between his teeth.

 

Louis doesn’t sleep.

He rolls around in bed a bit, sighing at the feeling of sand under his fingernails and in his blankets. It’s something he has yet to get used to—the way the sand gets everywhere. Even when you tell it to go away, even when it leaves you with drunken voicemail messages and shitty goodbyes. You haven’t seen it in years and it is still everywhere.

Louis is so so tired.

He gets out of bed as the sun is rising, and is surprised to find a warm kettle on the stove. He pours himself a cuppa and looks out the living room window. Harry is down the beach, one of Louis’ mugs clutched tightly in his hands. There is a dog sitting at his feet, and they are both just watching the sky get lighter.

Louis thinks he might be waiting for the sunrise, but you can never really see the sun behind the clouds. Louis wishes he could give Harry the orange and pink sky he is looking for. All he has is gray.

Louis turns away from the window, hastily pulling himself together. His bare feet are cold against the floor. He’s used to it, though—warmth is such a rare thing nowadays.

The door opens and Louis startles, tea sloshing onto the floor. He feels frozen while he watches Harry shut the door behind him. When he finally notices Louis standing there, his movements slow. The dog runs past them, probably in search of Niall, and Louis wonders why he’s never been able to freeze the world for them. Harry deserves it. Harry deserves the whole world.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Harry chews at his lip. His cheeks look wind bitten, and Louis almost says, a bit hypocritically, that he should’ve worn a jacket. Harry’s voice still sounds like warm honey. The sound of it lights Louis’ bones on fire, the air vibrating between them. He shouldn’t have to defend his actions in front of Louis, though. No number of years should ever change that.

“I’m gonna pick up some breakfast,” Louis responds. Harry nods and his eyes find the spilled tea on the floor easily, frowning at it. He passes Louis to deposit his mug in the kitchen and comes back with a paper towel. Louis doesn’t move an inch as Harry crouches on the floor in front of him, wiping up Louis’ mess. Harry pauses for a second and then pokes Louis’ little toe cutely, avoiding his eyes while he stands to throw the towel away.

It’s too much at once, and Louis feels himself splintering with it. He leaves his tea on the coffee table and pulls his shoes on, heart racing in his throat. He can feel it when Harry walks back into the room. Harry is absolutely astronomical. He has always been bigger than what the world could handle.

Harry is right behind him while he grabs his wallet and slips outside. He is right behind him when he reaches the end of the driveway and he is still there when Louis turns the corner towards the bakery down the street. Louis’ tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth but he slows his pace until Harry falls into step with him. They don’t talk. Although they never really needed to. Louis remembers when it was easy—back when they were just boys who had never been in love, singing love songs. He wonders what the hell happened.

They reach the bakery and Louis holds the door open for Harry, eyes trained on the display case of fresh pastries inside the shop so he doesn’t have to see Harry’s expression. Harry takes a long time walking through the door, daring Louis to look at him.

Louis ushers him inside eventually, pressing two fingers into the small of Harry’s back until he stumbles forward in shock. It’s the most contact they’ve had in five years. Harry saves himself from falling by skipping a bit and flipping his hair away from his face, running his finger through it in a way that looks completely unintentional. Louis has to force himself to look away.

“Good morning, Louis,” calls the woman from behind the counter. Louis doesn’t know her name—has never really spoken to his neighbors—but she knew who he was the second he stepped foot in her bakery. It doesn’t bother him. It has always been a thing he has to deal with.

“Morning,” he smiles, feeling Harry watching him. He scans the bagels, trying to ignore the weight of Harry’s gaze.

Luckily, the woman speaks, “I see you’ve brought someone new. It’s nice to meet you.”

Harry smiles charmingly at her, always so effervescent. He’s so bright it hurts. Louis tries to tune them out in favor of staring intensely at a scone.

“Well you must be pretty important,” Louis hears the woman say, as if she doesn’t know exactly who Harry is, “Louis has come into my bakery every day for the past five years and he has never brought a boy with him.

He almost bashes his head into the display case, hesitating only to hear Harry’s response.

“Well it’s been a long time,” Harry starts, slow and thick like drizzled molasses, “But I hope I’m still as important to him as he is to me.”

Louis bristles at that, sick of hearing them talk about him like he’s not stood a meter away. He clears his throat obnoxiously and vehemently taps the glass of the display case, “I think I’d like a few of those cinnamon buns, please.”

The woman looks momentarily shocked, not used to Louis being anything less than soft spoken and quiet.

Louis turns to see Harry’s reaction, but he’s already looking at Louis. He doesn’t look surprised—too accustomed to the boisterous and loud Louis from before. He does look sad, though. The blank look from before has completely dissipated, eyes shining sincerely. _What are you doing, Lou_ , his eyes say. Louis hates that he knows exactly what the other boy is thinking. He also hates that Harry can read him just as well. Louis doesn’t look away. He has no fucking idea what he’s doing—he has no fucking _clue_ why he has done _any_ of the things he’s done in the past five years—and Louis hopes his eyes scream just that.

They leave with a bag full of warm dough, smelling buttery and sweet. Louis pays, but Harry drops a few of his own bills in the tip jar, and Louis spends the whole walk home wishing he wasn’t so endeared by it.

 

///

 

All the boys eat in the kitchen, perched on counters and leaning against walls. Louis has a fresh mug of tea wedged between his thighs, and he is trying not to watch Harry.

He realizes he could, if he really wanted to. There are no more contracts between them, no more bans on who they could fucking _look_ at. Harry catches his glance, though, and his eyes stick to Louis until he’s turning away and squirming and refusing to let his gaze stray from Niall’s polka dot socks for ten minutes straight.

Niall is banging his heels against the cabinet from where he’s sitting across from Louis and Liam is in the living room, humming as he stares out at the ocean. Zayn went out for a walk after downing some tea and a muffin. He had been trying to have a conversation with Harry, but couldn’t get much more than polite responses and strained smiles. Louis hopes that isn’t his fault—he had never made his anger at Zayn much of a secret.

Harry is curled up at Louis’ kitchen table, long legs folded impossibly against his chest. He is resting his chin on his knees, gazing out the window until he periodically decides it’s a good time to cast a glance at Louis. He fingers play with a piece of green sea glass. It’s smooth against his thumb and it knocks against one of his rings. Louis found it years ago, when he had spent a solid week collecting parts of the ocean. Keeping things that didn’t belong to him. There is a line of shells and glass and sand dollars on the windowsill—a beautiful display of things that are not where they should be.

Harry tips his head back, and Louis just barely manages to look away. It’s so obvious—their back-and-forth—but Niall doesn’t comment. He takes a bite of something syrupy sweet and pretends like he isn’t witnessing the most desolate and pathetic dance he has ever seen. Louis is really fucking sick of people pretending. He’s spent too long doing just that.

Louis slides off the counter and drops his mug into the sink. He knows he shouldn’t leave it because Harry will end up washing it, due to him being Harry, but he can’t _breathe_. So he leaves, feeling everyone’s eyes on him. He doesn’t mean to, but he slams the front door closed behind him. 

As he’s walking down the beach, there is a crack of lightning. Thunder rumbles the ground in response, but there is no rain—only a bit of drizzle, an extension of the usual amount of mist. It’s like a physical representation of how uneasy he feels, of how on edge he is from the very boys who used to be his home.

He finds Zayn laying a bit away from the crest of waves, arms and legs spread wide as he trembles with shivers and the wind blows sand into his hair. He doesn’t seem to notice the lightning, or maybe he just doesn’t mind. Louis stands by his head, words refusing to come to him. It’s Zayn that speaks first,

“I’m not going to say I’m sorry.”

Louis tenses, takes a step away. “Neither am I.”

Zayn just laughs from his place on the ground, mouth opening wide as he absolutely _cackles_. Louis tries not to fume even more. This sounds like the beginning of a conversation they should’ve had a long time ago.

“I’m allowed to be mad,” Louis tries, because he _is_. It is something he has reminded himself of time and time again.

“I know, Lou. But you’re not allowed to say you know what’s best for me.” And that’s just it, isn’t it. Louis has been upset over Zayn doing something that made him _happy_ , something he did for himself. It still hurts, yeah. Louis still wishes Zayn could’ve been happy with Louis there by his side, but. It doesn’t always work like that.

It’s all so stupid, is the thing. They have hurt each other. They have lashed out and swung blindly and it was all for nothing. They both end up hurting at the end of the day.

“I’ll tell you what,” Zayn smiles, genuine and soft, “You forgive me for pretending that the band was what I wanted for five years, and I’ll forgive you for running away from everything for five years.”

It’s not quite where Louis thought this conversation would end up going, but he’s a bit exhausted. This truce is as good as any.

“And what will the other boys forgive you for?” Louis argues, because he loves being difficult.

“They’ve already forgiven me,” Zayn shrugs, shoulders shifting the sand beneath him, “Aside from Harry, maybe.”

“He’s just mad that you hurt my feelings,” Louis says, and it makes sense, now that he says it out loud.

“Yeah,” Zayn sighs. His eyes drift to the sky above them, “He loves you a lot. Even now." 

Louis doesn’t respond, couldn’t even if he tried. He thinks about Harry waiting for him for five years. He thinks about how well they’ve always just _fit_.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” Zayn adds, breaking the bated silence.

“I thought you weren’t gonna say you’re sorry,” Louis quips, but it’s weak and his voice sounds strangled. Louis’ brain is reeling.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not, though. Sorry, that is. I’ll always be sorry for ever hurting you boys.”

Louis smiles down at the sand before he looks back out at the ocean. The lightning and thunder have stopped.

 

///

 

Niall is strumming some indecipherable song on his guitar, body thrown across the length of the couch and dog resting comfortably on his feet. He’s trying to match the music up with Liam and Zayn, who are twirling around the kitchen, cooking dinner and bouncing lyrics between each other. 

Harry is finishing Louis’ game of Solitaire, eyes still following Louis around the room while he tries to catch a fly in a shot glass. There are other shot glasses strewn about the house, all holding flies and spiders that Louis has caught—leaving them there without any real intent of letting them go. Harry had always done that part. When he first moved here, it took Louis a few months of wondering why the shot glasses in his house weren’t disappearing like they usually did for him to remember. Soon, he ran out of glasses, and everything was a lot more real than it was before.

He catches the fly against the wall, whooping in success. Niall gives him a cheer when he sees that Louis has finally caught it, but it’s all a bit sad when Louis realizes he can’t do anything now. He forgot to grab a piece of paper to slide under the glass so he can set it down on the ground or something. He’s going to be stuck holding a glass to the wall for all of eternity.

There is a silent warmth from behind him and then long arms reach around his body.

“Here,” Harry says, chest pressing lightly into Louis’ back, “Let me.”

Harry shimmies what looks like Louis’ grocery list under the glass until the fly is completely trapped. Then he is lifting the glass from the wall, hand cupped underneath so the paper stays pressed against the bottom. He untangles his body from Louis faster than he appeared, and then the front door is opening and Louis can only stare at the wall.

When he hears Niall’s withheld laughter, he just rolls his eyes and takes a seat directly on Niall’s stomach until he begs for mercy. Louis is feeling more like himself than he has in five years.

 

They build a campfire as the sky begins to darken. Liam, always the practical one, carries out lawn chairs and thick blankets. It’s Louis and Niall who walk to the nearby shop to buy supplies for s’mores.

When they return, hauling a couple six packs of beer that they didn’t plan on buying, the fire is already crackling. Liam keeps poking it with a big stick, flexing his arms and looking manly. Zayn and Harry have wrapped themselves in blankets, not even pretending that they’re warm.

Niall passes out beer to everyone, and then falls to the cold sand, where he rolls around a bit with the dog. Louis thinks it’ll be hard to separate them when Niall leaves. He sips his beer, an attempt to chase the thought away.

Louis can feel Harry watching him, always watching him, while he pulls a blanket tight across his shoulder and slides into a lawn chair. He keeps his eyes on the molten center of the fire, ignoring the feeling he still gets from having all Harry’s attention on him. He digs his feet into the sand, eyes burning from wind and smoke, shivers wracking his body—as if they’re telling him to _get a grip. pull yourself together._

Liam eventually sits down and they watch the flames lick the air, no one speaking aside from asking for the occasional drink refill. Their faces are stained yellow—lifeless and shadowed, grim like they’ve been through hell and have the scars to prove it. Louis wonders just how much damage he did by running off. It isn’t even relevant anymore—they are all here now. It’s just a bit of a Louis Thing—always needing to be aware of how much space he is occupying at any given time, aware of how big his footprints are when he steps on the things he never meant to. Harry used to call him bigger than life. He’s always worried what that might mean for the people around him.

Harry drops an empty bottle into the sand, and curls up tighter in his blanket. Louis sees because he’s started staring and once he starts, it’s too hard to stop. He grabs another beer and an extra blanket and he holds them out for Harry, who bites down a smile and nods in thanks. Louis is glad nobody speaks. He doesn’t like the way the waves roar—piercingly loud until you have to raise your voice to speak over them, everyone screaming at everyone else in the end.

The fire pops and sparks fly up like stars—flashing in their eyes. Louis watches the green of Harry’s eyes illuminate, settling into a tender glow. He is still the brightest, somehow—luminescent and beautiful and Louis loves him. Oh God, Louis loves him. Even now, after all these years, he is the first one Louis sees when he walks into a room. Even now, when he barely knows him at all, Louis can read him like a book.

 

///

 

They watch the fire collapse in on itself until it’s just smoldering red embers. Liam dumps a bucket of water over it and the black wood hisses. He can barely hear it over the waves striking the shore but Louis watches the tendrils of smoke become thick clouds, distorting Zayn’s figure from where he’s trying to fold up a chair on the other side of the fire.

The boys move inside without having to speak—still so in tune with each other. Louis grabs an armful of sandy blankets, wet and cold with the ocean’s salty spray. Harry falters for a second, collecting the empty bottles they all left in the sand. He scoops them into his arms and Louis hesitates, pausing his strides so Harry won’t be left too far behind.

Louis lets Harry catch up to him, walking side-by-side towards the house. He drops the pile of blankets on the floor, the dog leaving Niall’s side for the first time that night to curl up on top of it.

Louis doesn’t say goodnight but Liam, Niall and Zayn pull him into a hug like they know. Louis melts into it, meeting Harry’s eyes over Liam’s shoulder. He looks tired. They push him towards his room and Louis lets his posture sag as soon as he closes the door. They didn’t turn on any lights, so he can see the dark shadows along the walls—the moon throwing shapes across everything.

It’s late already, sunrise only a few hours away, but Louis feels tense in a way that makes his muscles weep. He’s used to it, after all these years.

 

Louis waits an hour, tracing the lines of shadows with his eyes, before he leaves his room. He pauses in the doorway, expecting a dark, empty living room. Harry is curled up on the couch, glassy eyes fixed on the muted television.

Harry turns when he sees Louis, blue light from the television screen emphasizing his pallor, purple smudges of exhaustion under his shiny eyes. He doesn’t look surprised to see Louis. He takes a sip from a water bottle and Louis sees that there is an extra one waiting on the table, untouched. Louis wonders what that means.

Louis is still a little beer-tipsy, but he manages to drop himself onto the other side of the couch, snatching the water bottle in his hand. The kitchen light is on its dimmest setting, throwing powdery yellow light across Harry’s profile. He looks dashing. Though, he always has.

Louis doesn’t know what they’re watching, too engrossed in the way Harry stifles his yawns into his big hand or pulls his fingers through his hair until he finally gets sick of it, tying it back in a bun. Louis hasn’t had the pleasure of watching Harry do everyday tasks for five years; he can’t look away. It’s not very concerning. He has never been very immune to the lure of Harry Styles.

Harry notices, eventually. He locks his gaze on Louis, eyes sliding around his face. Harry is watching Louis watch him and they’re watching each other and it’s a game they used to play so long ago. They sit like that until the sky goes pale gray. And then Harry speaks,

“What are you so afraid of?”

Louis startles, some sharp response dancing on the tip of his tongue. He wants to tell Harry that that isn’t really any of his business, not anymore, but that’s not true. Harry has always been Louis’ exception. He’s been carving himself deeper into Louis since the day they first met.

Louis stands, instead. He almost runs again, but wavers, thinking maybe Harry deserves a bit more than that. “Don’t,” he says.

Harry stands then, head rising until Louis has to look up at him. They’re close together, eyes flickering at the sudden proximity. Louis thinks about how much Harry has grown, and how he has never once made Louis feel small. Louis feels small now, but it will never be Harry’s fault.

“Lou,” Harry sighs. It sounds soft and Louis can feel the exhale against the side of his cheek. Louis draws in on himself, toes curling violently against the hardwood floor. He spins, eyes set on the front door.

“Why are you still running from me?” Harry asks and it makes Louis pause. There is a lump in the back of his throat, like he swallowed something thick and brazen. Like he swallowed the sky.

“Stop, H,” Louis warns, and it’s an empty threat, really. He paces the short distance of the room, looming in front of Harry anyways.

“No, Louis,” Harry sounds shattered, “It’s been five years.”

And it _has_ been five years. It’s been five years and they are both more miserable than they’ve ever been. Louis is still too proud for the both of them.

“I can’t fucking talk about this right now,” Louis says and he storms out of the house, body searing and drawn tight. Harry is right at his heels. They’re stumbling over mounds of sand, tripping ridiculously and fuming in the morning air.

“Lou—“ 

“I don’t _want_ to talk about this, Harry,” Louis thinks they might be yelling. The waves are too loud. Louis’ ears ring.

“Then why the fuck did you call me here?” Harry says, stopping short and watching Louis fumble a few steps before he stops too, back facing Harry and eyes tracing the dirt-gray shoreline. It’s silent but it’s still too loud, and Louis doesn’t know how to deal with this. A fight in the early morning—angry and loud and passionate, even the birds swooping down in the sky to get a good look at the wounded lovers. 

Louis turns around and it feels like his chest is being ripped open. He quivers without meaning to.

“You’re shaking,” Harry breathes.

“I’m _scared_ ,” Louis replies, and he thinks it might be the most honest thing he’s ever said.

Harry steps closer, hovering right in front of Louis. He looks rumpled, but his eyes practically glow in this light.

“I’m not leaving,” he says, “I never left.”

Louis knows that, of course. _He_ was the one who left, he doesn’t need to be reminded. There is a grain of sand dotting Harry’s upper lip, so Louis brushes it away with gentle fingers. Harry preens at the touch and his warmth feels like praying.

“I just—“ Louis cuts himself off. He knows what he wants to say, but he’s afraid it will sound stupid once it leaves his lips. He’s still scared of what people will think, he wants to say. He’s still scared of Harry changing his mind. It is stupid, now that he thinks of it. Harry waited five years. He doesn’t say anything more but Harry hears it anyways. Louis wants to take him all over the world and kiss him so bad it hurts

“Who’s life is this if it’s not yours?” Harry says, and suddenly it’s all so simple. Suddenly there has never been anything simpler than _Louis and Harry_.

Louis looks at Harry, stray curls whipping around his face, eyes so trusting, and he nearly falls to his knees. Louis loves him. He loves the way he lives so unapologetically—never stopping to worry about what everyone else might think of him, acting in pure selflessness, and loving just for the sake of loving. Louis wants to show everyone this boy. He wants to hold his hand and brag about him to anyone that will listen.

Louis is crying before he realizes it, cold tears sliding down his face until Harry thumbs them away. Louis tries to speak, but he chokes on it, sobbing out an exhale instead.

“’M sorry,” Louis garbles, voice barely reaching his own ears. He wonders how it must sound, coming from someone who’s never really apologized before. Harry pulls Louis against his chest and it’s the warmest Louis has felt since he moved here, smelling like campfire and sweet boy. They huddle together, an act of faith against the wind. “I love you,” Louis adds, because he's never said it enough.

“I love you too,” Harry mumbles against the side of Louis’ mouth. Their lips slide together in a dry peck and he adds, as an afterthought, “Idiot.”

 

They walk the beach, hands clasped tightly in search of warmth. Harry tells Louis about what he’s been up to, about how he’s still writing songs, still singing whenever he can. Louis can relate; he tells Harry about the box under his bed, full of lyrics that only Louis’ eyes have seen.

Harry moves in the same way he always has, clumsy and respectfully careful of those around him. They talk like they never went a day without each other—banter flying back and forth, sentences trailing when they get a little too lost in their staring. Harry doesn’t look any older, still bright in the eyes and so quick to smile. He makes Louis stop at one point so he can drop to his knees in the wet sand and build a sandcastle, before the tides get too high. Louis stands next to him, watching sticky fingers and caressing hands, building something out of nothing.

Louis’ gaze catches the horizon, the sky growing lighter until the ocean almost looks black. He moves forward so the water is lapping against his feet. The sand shifts under him with each press of waves, but it’s less like it wants to pull him under and more like it’s comforting—grounding him deeper, rubbing the soles of his feet smooth.

Harry wraps himself around Louis’ back, his head hooking over Louis’ shoulder and breath stuttering against the side of Louis’ face. Louis turns around in the embrace until he can tuck his face in Harry’s collarbone. They sway together, dancing to a silent song. Louis keeps his chest pressed tight to the warmth but pulls his face back, nose bumping Harry’s chin. He gasps, his inhale ragged, and leans forward until their foreheads connect, resting against each other. All Louis can see is the green of Harry’s eyes, deeper than any piece of sea glass out there. The water circles their ankles and Harry holds even tighter, for just a moment. They break apart and trudge back up the beach without saying a word, sand between their toes and ocean foam clinging to their feet.

 

Louis and Harry pull the others out of bed and shove them into Louis’ car, where he drives them out for breakfast. They pick up bagels from the bakery and the woman behind the counter looks thrilled when Niall kisses her cheek, raving about her scones.

Louis waves a little excitedly at the woman as they leave, feeling lighter than ever before. He takes them to some tiny souvenir shops a few towns over, and they tumble from aisle to aisle, startling sleepy cashiers. Louis loves these shops, has always insisted that buying small things makes dealing with the big things easier. He smiles as he watches Liam poke at jars full of seashells. Niall is somewhere in the far corner of the shop, looking for a keychain with his name on it, and Zayn is laughing, holding a large purple jumper up to his chest. Louis thinks he hears Harry’s voice saying something to Zayn, before they both laugh, even louder than before. It’s picturesque and it’s beautiful.

They stomp around town like they rule the world. Louis thinks they just might.

It’s barely the afternoon, but Niall insists on checking out the pub on the corner. Liam and Zayn agree, but Harry hesitates, a step behind them. Louis grabs his hand and squeezes, right there, in the middle of the busy street.

“Hey lads, Harry and I are gonna pass this one time,” Louis calls, thumb tracing one of Harry’s rings, “We’ll pick you up in an hour.”

They stop walking and turn, a few meters from Harry and Louis. A few people bustle between them on the pavement, but Louis can still see their grins. It’s a bit disconcerting when they all simultaneously wink, slowly backing away, seemingly on the verge of laughter. Louis rolls his eyes at them, his signature move, and pulls Harry in the other direction.

They make it back to the car just before it starts raining. Louis lets Harry fiddle with the radio as he finds some quiet streets to drive around. Harry’s hair looks a bit wet from where he just barely managed to escape the rain, dark strands clinging to his jaw.

Louis pulls over when it really starts pouring, water beating against the side of the car in a pounding rhythm. He finds a deserted lot at a mini golf course, and parks the car haphazardly. Harry flips through Louis’ pile of CDs, freezing when he sees a familiar one. It’s old, from maybe nine years ago, but Harry hurries to open the case anyway. Louis remembers when Harry gave it to him, all those years ago. It was the first CD Harry ever made for Louis.

The song starts up and Louis turns in his seat until he is facing Harry, watching him twist his fingers in knots. Louis reaches across him to open the glove compartment, pulling out his secret stash of licorice. He offers some to Harry, who smiles like it’s the best thing he’s ever received. Harry leans over for a kiss, the licorice in his hand pressing against Louis’ cheek when he grips his face between his palms.

They sing softly, doodling on the foggy windows and munching on sweets. Sometimes they turn down the music as they recall a funny story, something they had remembered from those five years. It’s mostly Harry, talking about his adventures with Gemma’s cat or the time he tried to make lemon meringue pie, but ended up dropping it just before he could present it to his grandmother for her birthday. He has Louis in hysterics, head rolling back and face straining with his grin.

Louis wonders if anyone but Harry has ever made him smile this hard. He wonders if he’s smiled this hard since it all ended. He knows the answer, knows how this kind of joy has been a rarity these days. He still wonders, though. He wishes the answer were different. He wishes Harry didn’t ruin him quite as much as Louis knows he did.

 

They pick up the other boys with their stomachs aching for all the right reasons.

Niall makes a sly comment about how late they are but Louis doesn’t respond—only smiles sheepishly and doesn’t tell them about how he wanted to listen until the end of the CD before they left the parking lot. Harry bites his lip, but his dimple still shines through. Niall is smashed in between Liam and Zayn in the back seat, but he manages to writhe around in mock-disgust all the same.

Back at the house, they crowd around the living room, setting up board games across the floor. Liam pushes the coffee table against the wall and Zayn pulls the freshly washed blankets out of the dryer. They pile up on the floor, dice rolling and disappearing in their blanket cocoons. Louis watches Harry and gets lost in it, entranced by the way he giggles like a child through a mouthful of cheese and crackers. The dog steals a cracker off of Harry’s plate and they all laugh, Niall cackling the loudest as he throws himself at the ground and scratches the dog’s belly like he’s proud. Louis gets this feeling—warm, always warm now—happy and content in the knowledge that there is nowhere else he will ever belong.

The sun sets eventually, and they play until they can’t see the games anymore. Louis begs Liam to start a fire in the fireplace, so he gets up from the floor, pretending to be annoyed, and ruffles Louis’ hair while he passes by. Louis bites his lip, and he knows that Liam would do anything for him right now. He would do anything to keep Louis smiling like he has been all day. It’s heartening, so Louis grabs Liam’s ankle in an attempt to trip him on his way back. He ends up just squeezing it, like a _thank you_ , but Liam sputters and dives on the ground just for show.

Zayn plugs his phone into Louis’ speakers and starts some acoustic playlist. It sounds soft in the darkness. Niall is resting his head on the dog like a pillow and strumming his guitar. Louis shifts a bit, wrapping himself tighter and laying on Harry’s thigh. Zayn appears over him, pressing an open bottle of wine against his cheek. Louis takes it and smiles sleepily.

They pass the wine around, the orange glow of the fire making the room quiet. Louis has his feet resting on Zayn’s chest, and he thinks Liam has become a footrest for both Harry and Niall as well. It’s easy, tangling himself up in these boys. It’s easy to fall into this again, to fall into this feeling of home.

They finish the bottle of wine so Louis moves, curling up against Harry’s chest. He can feel the fireplace against the gentle curve of his back, and Louis knows that his lips are stained red, head a bit fuzzy and nice. Louis remembers what they used to be. He remembers growing up with these boys, clinging to them while they climbed to the top of the world. It all feels a bit anticlimactic, now.

The thing is, Louis could do nothing with these boys for the rest of eternity. He has been strung to them since they started, and there is no changing that—there is no changing the way loving someone makes them a part of you. Louis thinks about how people hurt each other all the time. He knows he’s been forgiven, though. Louis knows it and it feels like the last wall being knocked down. He feels like he has been destroyed and build up stronger for it.

Niall is still plucking strings, the sound vibrating throughout the room. Liam is scratching behind the dog’s ears and laughing breathlessly for no reason. Zayn has a tired smile on his face, head pillowed on top of his arms while he hums along with Niall’s guitar. And Harry—Harry is watching Louis. He is blinking languidly, and each move of his eyelashes has the yellow light throwing shadows across his cheeks. Louis feels his eyes crinkle, and he knows they never needed the whole world. Not when they had each other.

Louis’ eyes flash, locked on Harry’s until he knows that they can both hear the silent plead: _Stay_.

Harry nods, hugging Louis tighter to his chest. His chest is vibrating while he hums under his breath, a sound Louis didn’t hear until he was pressed up close. It’s a lulling kind of music, and Louis watches the curve of Harry’s lips bend around his breath. He is spread out on Louis’ living room floor with fuzzy curls and sandy jeans and he looks celestial.

Louis lets his eyes slip shut. He feels himself shedding his doubts, like slipping out of old socks. He hands himself over to Harry, no longer afraid. He has forgiven himself and it feels like freedom. Louis feels light from it, from giving all his trust back and then some. Louis lets go of all of it. He digs deeper into Harry’s side and he’s flying.

Louis knows that Liam will leave soon, hugging him tighter than usual. He knows that Zayn will go, too, and that it will take some work but they’ll get back to where they once were. Louis knows that Niall will leave but come visit for Christmas with some stupid present, like a DIY dog door. And Harry will keep smiling at Louis like he built the world.

Louis feels Harry’s chest rise, and he knows that Harry is a sure thing. He knows that Harry didn’t wait five years for nothing. Louis plans to make it up to him. He plans on spoiling him like he never got to before. Louis loves Harry and Louis is no longer afraid.

It doesn’t feel like before because it’s better now. They’re older and they know what they can do to each other. They have always been written in the stars.

Louis feels the familiar pull of sleep, and he welcomes it. He hasn’t had this in so long, he hasn’t trusted anyone this much in years—to see him at his most vulnerable. He wonders if it’s okay that he can feel himself drifting off. He wonders if it means something.

Falling back together feels as natural as breathing.


End file.
